


Seven Deadly Sins

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabbles, Hobbits, LOTR, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-28
Updated: 2009-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Character sketch or deadly sins - a set of seven drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Deadly Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Tolkien Weekly drabble community, which, some time ago (years, lol), did a series of drabble challenges based on the seven deadly sins. I completed and posted a few in my Livejournal (three or four), and then later went back to complete the series.
> 
> Six are gen, one is slashy.

**Gluttony**

"_Pippin_."

Icing everywhere: in the chestnut hair, a dab on the nose, liberally adorning shirt and trousers; hands and mouth, of course, are smeared and sticky and sweet.

"What?"

"What are you doing? That cake is for Cousin Bilbo's birthday, you know. _Was_ for Cousin Bilbo's birthday, anyway."

"But I didn't know. And it looked so good. I had to." Sniffle.

Stronger hobbits than I have been felled by less lethal weapons than those tearful green eyes. "Oh, Pippin. Let's clean you up and then I'll bake another."

"Can I help?"

"Perhaps. Pippin -"

"What?"

"Is that icing on your _foot?_"

 

**Sloth**

"Get up."

Curls vanish and long, thin feet appear as blankets are pulled up high. "Won't."

"Oh, really?" Esmeralda runs a fingernail down the sole of one foot and a tousled hobbit explodes from the bed, hair and quilts and skinny arms flying.

"Mum!" he howls, betrayed.

"Your da is waiting for you," and she is out the door, grinning.

"Let him wait," and Merry burrows into his nest, even as the sun breaches the cracks in the shutters and an older hobbit, with the same snub nose and crooked jaw as the one who sleeps, strides down the hall.

 

**Envy**

They are all asleep. Except Aragorn. He's on watch, still as a statue.

It's too bright, and my neck aches from the weight of the bloody ring, and my legs and feet hurt from walking, and I'm cold.

Sleeping by day. Whose daft idea was this journey, anyway? Oh, yes.

I turn my head to get the pale daylight out of my eyes. Pippin lies beside me, snoring lightly, face and body completely slack. I watch him breathe for a while, soothed and annoyed by his utter surrender to sleep.

I hate him. I hate them all. Except - perhaps - Aragorn.

 

**Lust**

Sometimes Merry stares at Pippin's mouth so intently he nearly passes out. Pippin's upper lip is thin, with an enticing dip below his nose. (Merry is sure he knows how that little V of flesh would taste, simply from tracing it with his eyes for so long.) Pippin's lower lip is fuller, a pink cushion above his pointed chin. Merry touched that lower lip once, while Pippin slept, and it was just as soft as it looked. Like satin. When Pippin is awake his mouth is always moving - speaking, laughing, eating, singing. When he sleeps his mouth belongs to Merry.

 

**Greed**

He couldn't've said why he did it. So he took his beating in silence, and the next day, when Bilbo brought him a cushion to sit upon, Sam shook his head.

"I earned the sore backside," he mumbled, and Bilbo nodded.

"I only have one question, Samwise," the elderly hobbit said.

"Yessir." Sam kept his eyes solidly on the bulbs he was repotting.

"Were my muffins worth it?"

Sam looked up at the twinkle in Bilbo's eye. "Yessir."

"Ah, fine." Bilbo wandered away, the cushion tucked under one arm. "Good to know my cooking hasn't fallen off in recent days."

 

**Pride**

At twelve, Merry tackled two tweens who said all Bucklanders were queer as ducks. His mother shook her head. "Pride, the downfall of the Brandybucks."

At fourteen it was a Burrows, who insulted Pervinca Took. "I don't even _like_ her," Merry lamented as Pippin inspected his black eye.

At nineteen Merry gritted his teeth and _didn't_ knock Lotho Sackville-Baggins' teeth down his throat. Merry recognised that as pride, too (and rather resented this grown-up version).

Crawling through cloying darkness, retching, wretched, knowing that he couldn't leave Eowyn to the Wraithking, Merry knew that his mum, as usual, had been right.

 

**Wrath**

Smeagol dreamed.

The hole he'd known, long ago, and Deagol his beloved and the trickery they'd got into, creeping about the tunnels of their grandmother's smial. He dreamed of being caught and scolded - maybe beaten - and he dreamed of the kisses that came after, when he was comforted and given a sweet and sent away for more mischief. Smeagol dreamed of ale and bread and singing that wasn't about fish or darkness or hunger.

He waked, and he looked at Frodo and Samwise, worn and thin and peaceful as they slept, and Smeagol felt a rage that Gollum did not understand.

 

 

~ _end_ ~


End file.
